


I Will Follow

by Smontheye



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types, The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Protectiveness, Spoilers for The Death Cure, The Maze Runner Spoilers, Thomas Has a Slight Crush on Newt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3311519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smontheye/pseuds/Smontheye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a second, Newt was drowning in concrete; then, he was in the Maze, surrounded by openness and darkness. He whipped his head around to watch the Door close with a final, resounding crack, morphing almost seamlessly into wall. There would be no way out until the morning.</p><p>(In which Newt runs into the Maze behind Thomas.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is basically what I think would happen if Newt ran after Thomas into the Maze, with established minewt. The explicit rating (smut) comes in the final chapter, so stay tuned (or tune out, if that’s not your jam).
> 
> As always, I love feedback, so let me know what you think!
> 
> UPDATE 9/12/15: This fic has been revised, polished, and some parts rewritten. Thanks for reading, everyone!

Newt’s muscles burned, but he didn’t stop running. His bad leg, that damned one he once broke, felt lit on fire right down to the bone. But the pain in his body and lungs was marginal compared to the sickly black ache in his heart. The Runners were coming back, trickling in from all directions, but there was no sign of Alby and Minho. Newt ran from Door to Door, pausing at each one and barking out the same desperate question at the arriving Runners.

“Have you seen Minho and Alby?”

The boys simply shook their heads, their faces passing from puzzled to worried rapidly as they took in Newt's face, which had probably turned a lifeless, pale color. His eyes prickled with the promise of tears, but Newt refused to let them surface. Alby never cried in front of the Gladers.

Newt mustered up the strength of voice to send the Runners to dinner, refusing to wonder whether they obeyed him out of true deference to his authority or just out of pity for how stricken he looked. He didn’t eat dinner because he couldn’t. The thought of his best friends lying, bodies broken, somewhere in the Maze flushed any appetite away from his gut.

His heart pounded to the beat of the dreaded words.

Minho and Alby will die tonight.

Minho and Alby were stuck in Maze, and Newt will be left alone. His mind was already racing toward the ivy-covered walls, wondering how far up he should to climb this time, how soon he could follow them. Certainly, he’d have to wait for all the others to fall asleep, when no one could find or stop him.

Yet, deep inside, he knew he couldn’t jump again. Without Alby or Minho around, the Gladers needed Newt. They needed an experienced leader.

Newt squinted desperately into the darkness of the Maze through the West Door. He stood on the same spot of deadened yellow grass that Minho had stepped on that morning as he pressed a kiss to Newt's forehead before leading an impatient Alby into the Maze. “Two hours,” Minho had promised. “We’ll be back before that Greenie can ask ya another stupid question.”

The Doors were to close in less than thirty minutes.

He sensed Thomas’ presence before he saw him. The Greenie looked almost as worried as Newt, his dark eyebrows pinched together and forehead creased deeply. Thomas’ frown looked unnatural on his youthful face, but it wasn’t devoid of hope. Behind the Newbie, trailing after him like a puppy, Newt spotted the mess of curly hair that was Chuck.

Thomas spoke to him, and Newt answered, forgetting his response shortly after it left his mouth. Newt knew he would later regret shouting at Thomas, but his mind couldn’t get past the certainty that the Newbie had it coming, thinking getting Minho and Alby back was as simple as going to look for them.

Newt checked his watch again, and, feeling like coroner pronouncing death, said, “The Doors close in two minutes.”

Suddenly, he couldn’t bear standing near as the Doors closed. He didn’t want to watch the coffins of Alby and Minho slam shut. Newt turned away, almost bumping into Thomas as he fled. He felt like a coward when Thomas stayed at the Door, peering in motionlessly.

Newt promised himself that he wouldn't start crying until he locked himself in the Homestead.

He was halfway to the building, debating whether his limp would allow him to run the rest of the way to avoid hearing Doors close, when he heard Thomas shout his name.

“Newt! They’re coming! I can see ’em!”

Newt whipped his head back to see Thomas at the Door’s threshold. The boy’s stance was tensed, and Thomas glanced between Newt and the dark of the Maze. Newt had run back to less than thirty feet away from the Door when Thomas seemed to make a decision. He took a hesitant step across the threshold.

“Don’t do it, Tommy!” Newt gasped out, lungs protesting. “Don’t you bloody do it!”

But Thomas's next step brought him into a run, and Newt watched in horrified dismay as the darkness swallowed the boy.

The Doors then began to groan, and the tall opening narrowed, like the wall was closing its huge, monstrous jaws and eating his friends up.

It felt like something else was controlling his legs as Newt approached the Door, his limp a distant ache. Without hesitation, Newt bolted through the opening. The Doors rapidly closed in around him, seeming to accelerate as they got closer together. Newt had to turn sideways to make the last stretch, barely avoiding being crushed.

For a second, Newt was drowning in concrete; then, he was in the Maze, surrounded by openness and darkness. He whipped his head around to watch the Door close with a final, resounding crack, morphing almost seamlessly into wall. There would be no way out until the morning.

Then, someone grabbed him, and whatever breath remaining in Newt’s lungs was knocked out as he was turned around and pinned, his back against the wall.

“You slinthead!” Minho shouted. Through the dim light, Newt saw Minho’s face appear inches from his, covered with a mix of sweat, dirt, and blood. The other boy gave Newt a hard shake, large hands gripped tightly on Newt’s upper arms. “I told you to shucking forget about me if this ever happened!”

“Minho, I—” Newt immediately stopped struggling when he realized his assailant was Minho, not a Griever. The wash of relief was temporary, however, as Newt took in the horror, anger, and disbelief painting Minho’s tired expression. His hand went up instinctively to touch the other boy’s face, as if he could smooth over the lines of pain straining it.

“Stop,” Minho’s voice was hoarse with agony as he swatted away Newt’s hand. The violent motion caused Newt to flinch. “You’re an idiot, Newt. Why the _hell_ did you do that?” Minho punctuated the question with another rough shake.

“Let him go! He—we just wanted to help.” It was Thomas’s alarmed voice. More than anything, he sounded surprised. Newt reflected that though Newt and Minho didn’t try to hide their relationship, Thomas was new to the Glade, and they hardly broadcasted it.

The Greenie grabbed Minho’s shoulder and, with surprising strength, pried him away from Newt. Minho rounded on Thomas. He looked angry, but also guilty as he saw Newt rub the bands of reddish flesh Minho’s hands left on his arms.

“Slim it, Greenie.” Minho snapped at Thomas. For a second, Newt was afraid Minho would hit Thomas. Newt stepped forward, ready to intervene.

Instead, Minho collapsed against the wall next to Newt, emanating exhaustion. Minho dug his knuckles into his eyes and let out a pained groan. “At least I get to die protecting you, Newt, like I’ve always dreamed.”

The three lapsed into a tense silence that Newt used to give Minho a concerned once-over.

He noticed how exhausted the Keeper of the Runners was. It was a miracle Minho could still walk, having been out in the Maze all day. The grime and scratches covering the boy’s skin emphasized the tired lines of his body. Of course, as a rule that Newt would never fail to appreciate, Minho looked stunningly handsome. Even slumped wearily against the wall, Minho’s broad shoulders and long frame made Newt feel warm inside.

One of Minho’s sleeves was shredded, exposing a long, muscular arm with the light ridges of veins visible even in the dim light, running like thick wires under his skin. A long time ago, before there were Keepers and Runners and Builders and organization, Alby had compared Minho to a machine. Sitting beside Alby by the crackling fire as they watched Minho run lap after lap around the perimeter of the Glade, building up that incredible stamina, Newt had agreed.

Now, watching the Runner’s defeated, exhausted slump and unconsciously rubbing the spot he had grabbed him, Newt determined for the thousandth time that Minho was the opposite of a machine. Perhaps parts of him, his single-minded determination and his bottomless stores of energy, were machine-like, but that was where the similarity ended.

Minho wasn’t unfeeling. Rather, he felt too much. Beautiful Minho, who looks at him like Newt’s the light of day and the sun is an imposter. Who touches Newt like he’s more precious than diamonds and more fragile than glass. Who Newt once found alone in the Map Room nursing a bloody fist and trying to conceal a visible new dent in the metal wall.

“We can’t just stay here like sitting ducks.” Thomas’s words interrupted Newt’s thoughts. The younger boy sounded confused and wary. “What’s the plan? Minho, what happened to Alby?” Newt reflected that Thomas hadn’t been in the Glade long enough to know to be scared.

“Right.” Newt straightened up, trying to summon authority into his shaky voice and probably failing for not the first time that day. A piece of klunk for a leader he was, just standing there and staring at Minho like a love-struck twelve-year-old. “We start movin’. And don’t bloody stop.”

“What about Alby?” Thomas repeated. “We can’t leave him to die.”

Newt felt the warmth escape his skin. On unsteady legs, he approached Alby, who lay on his back a few feet away where Minho had left him. Thomas was already crouched over the Leader, head to Alby’s chest. 

“Why’s he unconscious?” Newt asked, checking Alby’s breathing and pulse for himself when Thomas moved away. Both were shallow. For a moment, Newt wished he were the unconscious one. Alby would be ten times more useful than Newt. Newt could already feel clouds of panic rising in mind. The numbing mist of adrenaline from bolting after Thomas was fading rapidly.

“I did what I had to.” Minho grunted as he pushed up from where he sat, relying heavily on the vine-covered wall for the upward motion. He approached Newt and spread a palm on Newt’s back. It was ridiculous how much the simple touch steadied and calmed him. “Newbie, help me get this heavy shank to the Door. Give ’em one body that’s easy to find in the morning.”

“My name’s Thomas.” Thomas said indignantly. Then, something passed over his face, and Thomas whipped around. Thomas’ face was stone calm, but Newt glimpsed a panicked glint in the boy’s dark brown eyes. “How can this be happening!” Thomas’ gaze darted around, and Newt could almost see the gears turning rapidly in the younger boy’s head.

“If you’re thinking ’bout being some kind of hero, Newbie, I’ll be the first to tell you that you’ve got klunk for brains.” Minho said unsympathetically. “He’s already dead, shuckface. We all are.”

But Thomas wasn’t listening. He suddenly ran to the far wall, where the vines grew especially thick. Thomas grabbed onto one of them and pulled, exerting all his weight. The ivy didn’t budge.

Minho looked at Thomas as if he were crazy. “Never mind about Alby.” Newt’s body was jerked to the side as Minho pulled him by the hand. “We’re leaving, Greenie. Stay away from dead ends and don’t get crushed by moving walls.”

“No!” Thomas’s voice echoed hauntingly off the walls, and he lowered his volume. “You need to help me first. If we tie Alby up on the wall, the Grievers might not reach him.”

Minho made to move deeper into the Maze, but Newt dug his heels in. “Tommy’s right,” Newt decided. He wasn’t going to be a coward. For Alby. “I won’t bloody leave Alby like this.”

Minho’s eyes, colored an intense black in the dim night, pinned Newt’s gaze.

“Not you,” he groaned. But something in Newt’s face must have changed Minho’s mind, because he let go of Newt’s wrist, went to Alby, and grabbed his legs. Newt followed suit, taking Alby’s arms. They moved to where Thomas stood, Alby’s body swinging like a hammock between them. “I can’t shuckin’ believe the Grievers haven’t come and devoured us all yet.”

While Thomas scaled the ivy wall like a squirrel, Minho and Newt fastened a makeshift harness on Alby. Soon, Alby was being raised up the wall pulley-style and tied off securely. Newt couldn’t help but admire Thomas’ calm efficiency as they worked together to lift Alby to safety. No trainee had ever been so level-headed his first time in the Maze, and here Thomas was, facing certain death stuck in it.

Gally was right; Thomas was different from the other Gladers. But Newt refused to believe he had come to hurt them—at least not intentionally. And that was all that mattered to him.

Newt forcibly pushed back the rising tide of hope in his chest at the thought that, maybe, with Thomas, they could survive the night.

When Thomas had clambered back down from the wall, Minho was pacing between the walls like a trapped lion and combing his hand through his slicked-up hair.

“What’s the plan?” Thomas asked Newt, eyeing Minho warily. Newt jolted, having not expected the question.

“Well,” Newt rasped, throat dry. “The best strategy’s splittin’ up but staying close, so the Grievers—so we won’t all be trapped at once.” Newt swallowed at the thought of those whirring, angry creatures. “Act as backup for each other. Distractin’ them and such, if they can be distracted. We need to avoid dead ends, watch for moving walls…” Newt was babbling now, and before he could say more, Minho interrupted.

“No time for explanations. Newt, you’ve got that shuck limp, so you’re coming with me.” Minho came to a stop in front of the other two boys. Reaching up and then behind himself, he pulled out one of the long, gray knives that every Runner kept doubling for self-defense and cutting pieces of ivy “breadcrumbs.” As Keeper, Minho always carried two. He passed one of them to the Greenie. “Thomas,” Minho pointed down a corridor. “Make three left turns, two right, and then run straight ’til you get to a three-way intersection. We’ll meet ya there. Holler if a Griever starts chasin’ you.”

“Why don’t we just climb up the wall where Alby is?” Thomas protested.

“Because if it turns out they can climb walls,” Minho replied, sounding like he was doubting Thomas’s intelligence, “you’ll be shucked. Any more stupid questions?”

“I’ve bloody got one.” Newt replied. “Tommy shouldn’t go alone.” It was true and practical. Newt was once one of the most senior Runners, and no matter how hard he tried to forget, the scheme of the Maze was etched into his mind like a tattoo. Thomas had never been in the Maze before. “I’ll go that way, and you and Tommy can stay together.”

“That’s not a question.” Minho replied sternly. “And get that slinthead idea outta your mind, ’cause I’m not letting you alone in the Maze.” The word “again” sounded in both of their minds just as loudly as if it had been said.

“We’ve got no buggin’ time for this.” Newt echoed Minho’s earlier words. He knew where this conversation was going, where it had gone so many times already without resolution. Thomas was glancing between them again, wearing another confused, worried expression. “I’ll go with Tommy then.” Truthfully, Newt didn’t want to leave Minho as much as he knew Minho didn’t want to leave Newt. But a good leader would never have let Thomas wander the Maze by himself, and it was Newt’s fault for not stopping Thomas from running into this hell in the first place.

Minho opened his mouth to protest, but closed it before a sound came out, looking like a fish out of water. Finally, expression guarded, he conceded.

“Alright. Get moving, shanks.”

Minho used a hand on the small of Newt’s back to give him a push towards the corridor of the Maze he earlier instructed Thomas to take. Newt didn’t hear Minho move until they made the first turn out of sight.

Newt and Thomas ran in silence. Well, technically, Thomas jogged carefully behind him while Newt moved as fast as he could without putting too much strain on his bad leg. Newt realized with amusement it was the longest time Thomas had gone so far in Newt’s presence without asking any questions. But then—

“Why does he act like he owns you?” Thomas asked in his signature thoughtful, matter-of-fact way that made it impossible to get angry at him. The younger boy’s voice was even, as if the jogging barely dented his energy. The way Thomas carried himself with careless confidence reminded Newt distinctly of Minho.

“That shank acts like he owns bloody everything,” Newt replied. Unlike the Greenie, he was panting.

Coming from behind him, Thomas’s voice sounded like it contained a frown. “You guys are… _together_ , right? You should be equals.” Newt almost tripped in surprise. He knew Thomas was perceptive, but it was unexpected how quickly he connected the dots. Chuck still thought he and Minho were just extra close friends.

“He’s the Keeper of the Runners.” Newt replied, not knowing why he wasn’t just telling Thomas to shut his hole. “That means he’s an expert on the Maze.”

“But he doesn’t need to act like that!” Thomas said with an unusual burst of passion that caused Newt to stop abruptly. His leg protested the sudden deceleration, and Newt twisted around in an effort to lessen the sudden burst of pain. Unable to stop in time, Thomas crashed into Newt, and they both went down.

All the air was knocked out of Newt’s lungs as his back hit the ground. It didn’t help that Thomas landed on him, chest to his chest. Newt gasped for air as Thomas scrambled off of him.

“I’m sorry—”

“My fault.” Newt rasped. Thomas reached down to help Newt up, but he didn’t let go of Newt’s arm once they were both standing. Thomas opened his mouth, seeming on the verge of saying something before a familiar shout interrupted him.

“SHUCK!” It was Minho’s voice, followed by the bone-rattling sound of metal scratching against concrete. The sound came from two corridors away.

“Minho!” Newt screamed, rapidly backtracking towards their previous turn.

After only a few steps, Thomas shot past him, a blur of brown hair and lightly tanned skin.  “Turn right up ahead!” Newt shouted, but Thomas didn’t seem to need the instruction.

Wary of his leg giving out altogether, Newt rounded the bend slowly.

His heart sank.

The walls were moving, closing in with Thomas and Minho on the other side. He was reminded of the Doors, but here there was no way Newt could get to the other side without being flattened into a human pancake.

Both boys were both staring wide-eyed at something beyond, and Newt had the horrible feeling he knew what it was.

Then, Minho turned his head and caught his gaze. The last thing Newt saw before the walls sealed shut was Minho’s terrified face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy the chapter!

Newt pressed his ear against the wall, listening desperately for Minho and Thomas. All he could make out the loud, groaning walls of the Maze as it morphed. Hot tears rolled involuntarily down his cheeks, and the image of Minho and Thomas getting mauled by a slimy, mechanical monster swam in his head. He squeezed his eyelids tightly together and banged a fist on the wall.

“No!” Newt screamed into the darkness before collapsing against the concrete surface. The sound came out a mutilated half-sob. He supposed that he should’ve been used to death by now, considering the number of wooden grave markers stamped in the Deadheads—all boys he either knew as long as he could remember or who he had watched change from scared Newbies to fearless Gladers, determined to find freedom.

Newt would soon be joining their ranks.

But the thought of what he’d be leaving behind branded his mind most strongly.

Ben’s excited yet determined face when Newt told him the Keepers chose him as a Runner. Clint’s surprising gentleness when dealing with even trivial cuts and bruises.  Gally’s talent for construction that revealed but also wasted his amazing mathematical ability. They all worked their best, and they all deserved Newt’s best.

Pulling himself up from his fetal position against the vine-covered wall was not easy, mentally and physically.

Newt squinted down the dark corridor to his right, trying to remember the differences between the section’s map from the day before and the map it would turn into by sunrise. If he could predict the movements of the walls, Newt mused, he would be slightly safer, slightly more able to find Minho and Thomas if they miraculously survived.

The groan of moving walls sounded loudest in the morning, Newt recalled, so the last of the Maze to move must be the parts closest to the Glade.

 _That’s right_ , he thought, recalling words Minho once said to him while they were training, running the Maze together in the early days when they had no clue what to expect. _Stay rational._ _Keep on thinking, keep on moving._

Newt might have had the better memory, but Minho was always the faster thinker.

Newt decided it was pointless to try to get to where he had last seen Thomas and Minho—if they were still living, they would have run as far away as possible from there. Instead, Newt headed towards the thundering sound of moving concrete, figuring that if there was any way of escaping a Griever, it would be by squeezing past two converging walls.

Barely five minutes passed before he heard the dreaded sound of a Griever. It rounded the corner so quickly that Newt had no time to hide.

“Shit!”

Fortunately for the Griever, Newt would be an easy meal. He ran as fast as his legs would allow, but it wasn’t long before he could hear the monster gaining on him, its wet, metallic noises sounding so close Newt couldn’t believe he was still on his feet.

Then, Newt felt something hook around his waist, and all the air in his lungs was squeezed out as he was abruptly whipped around in a ninety-degree turn. The world spun rapidly before his eyes for a fraction of a second before his momentum was stopped just as suddenly as he was grabbed.

As he recovered from the spinning sensation, Newt was distantly aware of the Griever bowling past him, letting out mechanical roars without noticing that he wasn’t running in front of it anymore.

“Ah—!” Newt’s instinctive cry was cut off by a large hand clamping over his mouth. Against his back, he felt a firm, warm surface. The air that filled his lungs at his a panicked inhale smelled wonderfully familiar.

He twisted around and buried himself in Minho’s chest, unable to stop shaking. Minho’s arms, similarly firm, protective, and familiar, encircled Newt. He felt breath against his ear, warm, slightly moist, and very reassuring.

“Gotcha, shank.” Minho whispered. Newt nodded jerkily and didn’t hold back the relieved tears that streamed forth. For a few precious moments, Newt sobbed into Minho’s shirt while the other boy rubbed slow, comforting circles into his back.

Eventually, Minho pressed a kiss to Newt’s forehead and straightened up as far as he could without dislodging the boy clinging to him. “We need to meet Thomas up ahead. Do you need me to carry you?”

“I can walk,” Newt replied with more confidence he felt.

They were in a narrower passage of the Maze that branched off from what Minho referred to as the “trunk.” Newt had once started an initiative to mathematically denote the passages of the Maze, but the Runners quickly realized that it added unnecessary strain to their memory.

His bad leg gave out the second Newt stepped out of Minho’s embrace, sending him into an unsteady kneel. Now that the adrenaline rush was gone, it was clear he’d underestimated the toll the unplanned exertion had taken on his body. Minho caught him, and Newt winced.

Minho raised an eyebrow. “I’m gonna take that as a ‘yes.’”

“You’re a bloody heroic slinthead.” Newt muttered as Minho turned around so he could jump on piggy-back.

“It’s a good shucking thing you go for bloody heroic slintheads, then.”

A smile was detectable in Minho’s voice through the exhaustion. As Minho hefted him up, Newt decided that the other boy’s incredible stamina would never fail to surprise.

Despite his relative bulk, Minho never developed the economical, controlled soldier’s stride that the other Runners acquired—that Newt used to have—for running the Maze daily. Minho’s every move, including his running style, was free, open, and steady, how Newt imagined mountain lion would run. It took more energy, but that was never an issue for Minho. His confident, almost predatory way of movement was one of the many comforting, unchanging idiosyncrasies that Newt loved endlessly about the boy. In retrospect, it was inevitable that sleep rapidly drifted over him like a disobedient fog.

* * *

When he woke up, the first thing Newt noticed was that he wasn’t on Minho’s back anymore. The head in front of him had brown, slightly wispy hair, completely different from the thick, black hair that Newt had run his hands through so many times before. The torso between his thighs felt leaner, though it possessed the same muscled firmness as Minho’s. Also, the body heat was different. Unlike Minho, who was a space heater on legs, the boy— _Tommy_ , he thought groggily—who held him now emanated a muted warmth that barely crept through his thin cotton shirt.

Newt struggled a little. “I’m awake. Let me down, Tommy.”

“Tommy, huh?” Came a scratchy, amused voice. When Thomas looked hesitant to put Newt down, Minho shrugged. “Let that lazy shank down. We’re here, anyways.”

Suddenly, Newt felt an energizing rush of relief spread through his limbs. Thomas and Minho were both alive.

“What’s ‘here’? And how’d you guys escape that bloody Griever?” He demanded. Thomas let go of his legs, and Newt slid off his back, falling precariously to his feet. Minho’s hand went to Newt’s shoulders, steadying him.

“We didn’t,” Minho grinned. “I’ll tell you the long version later, if there is a ‘later.’”  Compared to before, Minho sounded a great deal more confident that there would be one. Newt gave him a confused look, and Minho continued. “Your Tommy here,” he gestured at Thomas, “killed a Griever.”

Newt whipped his head to Thomas, who of all things resembled a bashful grade-schooler who just won a spelling bee. “I couldn’t have done it without Minho,” Thomas said.

“Wow, Tommy,” Newt said, impressed. “Bloody hell, I didn’t think those god-awful things could die.”

“We’ll give him a shucking medal for it later,” Minho went on. His dark eyes were suddenly glinting with enthusiasm, tempered by a clever, quick-thinking brilliance that Newt could never help but fall in love with. “Right now, we have a plan. The last Grievers all ended up over the cliff, right Greenie? So, no evidence, nothing to study. If we survive tonight, we might as well get a clue about how to shucking get outta here...”

As plans went, Minho’s plan was as foul proof as they could get in the circumstances, which wasn’t very foul proof at all. It all rested on the assumption that Grievers couldn’t climb walls—at least not as fast as Thomas could. And, there was another thing—

“Minho, even _you_ can’t run that fast. We need another bloody decoy.” As Newt finished speaking, Thomas nodded vigorously, looking like he had already gone through this argument with the Keeper of the Runners. “And right now, my only job is to keep watch for other Grievers—”

“No.” Minho interrupted. Thomas stopped nodding his head. “You’re too important. If another group of Grievers come—”

“If you bloody don’t make it, we’re all shucked anyway,” Newt responded, meeting Minho’s glare with his own. “Stop treating me like a buggin’ damsel in distress.”

“Whoa, guys, we can just keep on surviving.” Thomas interjected, his brown eyes wide as he looked between Newt and Minho. “We can just do this another night with more people.”

“How many times do I have to tell you before you get it into your shuck head that you don’t know how things work around here?” Minho turned the full force of his frustration on Thomas. “No half-sane shank is gonna come out here at night. I don’t god-damn plan on it again. Besides, there are rules for a reason. This is our only chance.” Minho’s gaze met Newt’s again for a moment, filled with gentle forgiveness and understanding. “‘Keep on surviving’ is not an option.”

Newt’s shoulders felt heavy with another realization. If they survived, none of the Gladers would look at him the same way again. Minho and Thomas would come back heroes. Newt would lose all his credibility as a leader.

But if it meant even the merest chance of getting out of the Glade, Newt was willing to risk everything he had.

As if he had read Newt’s mind through his gaze, Minho gave a brief nod of grudging permission. When Newt shot him a sunny grin, he rolled his eyes.

“Okay, I get it, alright?” A voice called out from above. Newt turned his head to see that Thomas was already twenty feet off the ground and rapidly climbing higher. There was a grunt from above as Thomas yanked several thick pieces of vine out of the wall. The set-up was quick and simple, and Minho and Thomas were finished in minutes. Soon, all that was left to do was to wait for their prey.

“I see one—three.” Thomas called down. “They’re moving slowly, but the first one’ll reach us in a minute.”

Newt braced himself against the wall, his heart already pounding. His skin was clammy, but his throat felt dry.

“Shouldn’t someone give a pep talk or something?” Minho asked. The comment was so unexpected that Newt snorted.

“Go ahead.”

“Be careful.” Minho puffed out his chest, raising his chin as if he were addressing the whole Glade instead of just Thomas and Newt. “Don’t die.”

“Great, we’re all bloody inspired.” Newt gave a short laugh. Except for rare instances around Newt, Minho was allergic to sentimentality. Only Newt knew the Runner well enough to see that Minho showed snark instead of fear, anger instead of grief, and aggression instead of pain. For all the times Minho forced him out of his depressive funks, Newt never called the other boy out on hiding behind his shield of sarcasm.

As he turned his attention back to the plan, Newt resolved to fix that. Assuming they survived the night.

“Okay, Newt, you ready?” Thomas called out. A pause, and then:  “Five, four, three, two—go!”

Newt didn’t need the cue. The first Griever had rounded the corner, its whirring body lighting up like a Christmas tree. It let out a screeching roar, and Newt didn’t stay around long enough to see what it did next.

Newt sprinted like a bullet. Ignoring the pain in his leg while running had begun to feel like second nature. Or perhaps it was the adrenaline again. His lungs were on fire, his stomach ached with fear, but his mind was oddly rational.

Seconds later, he reached the handle-thick piece of vine that Thomas had pulled out slightly and tied off again. He could hear the noise of the Griever, now almost caught up to him, only feet away. With both hands, Newt grasped the plant at full speed and threw his body to the side, using centripetal force to swing himself out of the way into another corridor as quickly as possible. If looked like it did when Minho and Newt practiced it, the move was quick enough and the turn was shadowed enough that it looked like Newt disappeared into thin air.

It worked. The Griever slowed down like a confused bull, and its companions crashed clumsily into it. The time the monstrous, gooey machines took to straighten themselves back up was enough for Minho to get into position with a second head start, a hundred feet away.

“Ugly shuckfaces! Hey, slintheads, over here!” The first Griever reared what Newt supposed was its grotesque head, and the trio all went for Minho, who took off.

Minho’s route was twice as long as Newt’s. But if anyone was capable of leading a pack of Grievers through two Glade-lengths of Maze, it was the Keeper of the Runners. A few seconds after the Grievers bowled past his hiding spot, Newt crept out and took a left where Minho had taken a right. Minho was on the shorter route to the cliff at the edge of the Maze, so by the time Newt got there, the trap would already be sprung.

Then, he heard a whirring noise.

“Bloody hell!” He shouted, bolting in the opposite direction.  Newt lunged for the first opportunity to make a feint-turn, but after bowling past, the pair of Grievers seemed to realize what Newt had done and backtracked to him. His first instinct was to turn back towards where he knew Minho and Thomas were, towards the cliff.

But if he did, Newt would be bringing company. The plan couldn’t afford that. They’d all get killed, even more outnumbered.

In the distance, Newt could see the rosy pink tendrils of dawn above the walls of ivy. The reminder of how close he had come to surviving the night caused a wet and sour feeling to prickle the corners of his eyes. He made several more rapid turns, arms aching more each time. Was it possible to re-break a leg just by using it too much? It certainly felt like it.

The knowledge that he was about to die felt different the second time. The first time, Newt had looked down at the Glade from halfway up the wall and been overcome by an immense sense of relief. The pink sky—it was a sunset, last time—made it all the more surreal. It felt like escape was impending, that when he jumped, he would fall up into the sky, away from the concrete prison.

Now, he ran towards the sunrise to the east, towards Glade, towards the Doors that would open in a little more than an hour, towards where they had left Alby—

 _Alby_. Newt couldn’t endanger Alby. Or the rest of the Glade. If Alby was still alive—

Newt listed to the side, preparing to make another turn, when he heard the sound of moving concrete. The two walls in front of him were converging.

He knew exactly what to do.

Using a final burst of energy that he was certain he didn’t have, Newt accelerated, making a beeline between the walls of concrete. From the high-pitched roaring and the sound metal scraping against concrete, Newt knew the Grievers were following closely. The line of light at the end of the converging walls was narrowing, and Newt felt déjà vu as he turned sideways to make the last stretch.

Newt gasped for air when he squeezed into the open. He turned around in time to see the first Griever let out an ear-piercing groan as the back half of its body was crushed between the walls. Its sharp, silvery claws and needles made one last reach at Newt, who flinched violently away. Then, its flashing lights sputtered out, and the Griever stopped moving with a final twitch.

Newt didn’t remember collapsing to the ground, but, abruptly, he was staring at the sky, and his head was spinning. Or the sky was spinning, who bloody knew? Either the walls had stopped moving, or the ringing in his ears was drowning the sound out. He wondered where Minho was. That shank had no right to die, not until he gave Newt another kiss or two. Or a million.

Newt tried to sit up, but his limbs felt like they had shut down.

Soft, merciful darkness washed over him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I’m really sorry for the huge gap of time since the last update. I’ve had the entire fic planned out and in rough draft form since February, but I got hit in the face by sucky Real Life obligations. This is the penultimate chapter. Enjoy!

Sunlight streamed into the room through an open window. Newt didn’t need to open his eyes to know this because there was a warm patch of sunlight on the covers above his stomach. The warmth was nice, but the presence of light suggested that he needed to wake up soon or was already supposed to be awake, and all Newt wanted to do was sleep.

He turned over and tried to curl into a ball, but something warm and solid was in the way. Instinctively knowing it was Minho, Newt snuggled deeper into this other, more welcome heat.

Then, Minho pulled away with a pained groan.

Newt slowly opened his eyes to see that the other boy had sat up. The blanket that was covering both of them had slipped down to Minho’s waist, exposing his toned, bare chest, and black hair stuck up in all directions. It was a sight Newt would have taken his time with if Minho wasn’t clutching his heavily bandaged left arm against his chest.

The unpleasant reminder of what happened jolted Newt out of his drowsy daze.

The Maze. Thomas, Alby, the Grievers, Minho’s plan—

Newt had barely propped himself up before he was crushed against Minho’s chest. He felt kisses plastered to the top of his head rapidly, one after another, before Minho elected to simply press his nose and lips into Newt’s hair. He felt his soft inhale.

Though the last thing he wanted to do was complain about the treatment, Newt needed to know what happened.

“Minho—”

“How do you feel?” Minho interrupted, voice uncharacteristically gentle and careful. His arms, still draped around Newt, loosened enough so he could pull away and make eye contact. The Runner sounded haunted, and Newt felt protectiveness of the other boy wash through his veins.

He stretched carefully, analyzing the pain in his limbs. “I’m sore bloody everywhere. Leg hurts. I ran into more Grievers,” Newt shivered at the memory, “and led them away.” Unlike Minho, Newt wasn’t sporting any bandages. When Minho nodded, his dark eyes filled with admiration and affection, Newt asked, “What happened to your arm?”

“Shucked it up running away from those Grievers.” Minho glared at his bandaged arm as if it personally offended him. At Newt’s horrified look, Minho added, “I wasn’t stung, obviously.” He tapped his chest, which was very obviously not pale and green-veined. “I had to do some fancy running and jumping to lose ’em. If it weren’t for your Greenie, I’d be Griever chow right now. You were right about trusting him, by the way. He’s the shucking reason we’re lyin’ here, and not somewhere dead in the Maze.” Newt made a face at the image.

“How’s Alby?” Newt remembered where he’d last seen his oldest friend, a shadowed, limp form hanging from the wall of the Maze. Minho’s face darkened.

“He’s alive.” Minho hesitated. “He’s in another room, bein’ watched over by Clint. It seems like the longer a stung shank goes without the Serum, the longer the Changing. The Medjacks think he’ll survive.” Minho’s worried face belied the hopeful words. Between them hung the bleak understanding that the boys who went through the Changing didn’t come out the same. Minho ran his hand along Newt’s spine soothingly. “Are you tired?”

“How long have I been sleeping?” Newt’s mind swam with questions, with the enormity of what happened. More than two years of nothing and suddenly they knew how to kill Grievers. They _survived_ the Maze.

“Not long enough. It’s almost dinner.” Minho frowned. “Are you hungry?” Before Newt could respond, his stomach rumbled, and the Minho barked out a laugh. The rough sound didn’t resemble Minho’s usual easy chuckles, but the tense air between them lightened anyways.

“Bloody starving.” Newt responded unnecessarily.

While listening to Minho’s account of what happened in the Maze, Newt wolfed down Frypan’s dinner of roast beef. He found it hard to ignore the stares coming from the Gladers around him. When Newt looked up, he caught Gally’s disapproving gaze. The Keeper of the Builders was sitting among the Builders, arms crossed stiffly over his chest. Minho wrapped a warm arm around Newt’s shoulders, and Newt didn’t miss the glare the two exchanged.

Thomas, who woke up earlier and got dinner sooner than Newt and Minho, sat with Chuck, talking animatedly as other Gladers listened wide-eyed to his story. The Greenie was currently miming climbing up the wall.

“I want to see Alby.” Newt declared, unable to suffer the boys’ staring any longer. He imagined their gazes burning holes of suspicion and betrayal into his skin.

“Later.” Minho said with certainty, like he had been expecting the demand. “You need to rest for tomorrow.”

“What’s tomorrow?” Before the other boy could respond, the answer hit Newt and elicited a groan. “Oh, the bloody Gathering.”

“The Admiral’s not conscious anyway.” Minho added gently, reaching up to massage the nape of Newt’s neck. “He’s under anesthetics.”

“Alright, let’s go.” Newt frowned, wondering why Minho was treating him like a fragile, skittish animal.

Despite the almost day-long nap, Newt’s limbs dripped with exhaustion, and his mind spun with what had happened and what was to come. This grip of fearful uncertainty reminded Newt painfully of two years ago, when the first boys arrived in the Glade. No structure, nothing solid to rely on. Though he knew he was still seated at the table, he felt momentarily like the ground was spinning under him.

His body and lungs seized with unsteadiness. Fear dragged across his throat like a noose, and Newt couldn’t stop his fingers and shoulders from spasming. Panic clawed its way through his system.

Then, he felt the comforting touch of solid arms.

“Hey, it’s okay, shank. It’ll be okay.” For a few moments, Minho repeated the words like a mantra, rubbing soothing circles into his back.  When the shaking stopped, Minho released Newt and helped him stand without jostling his bad leg.

Newt winced. Bone throbbed like it was freshly broken.

As if reading his mind, Minho explained, “There’s no break, but you messed up the muscles pretty bad, and they never healed right in the first place.” Trying to ground his mind, Newt stared at the tired lines of the other boy’s face and wondered how long Minho spent making sure he was okay that morning before letting himself rest.

This was different from the beginning, Newt reminded himself as he swallowed back a bitter tide of unease. They now had maps, trained, experienced Runners, and Keepers. Newt had Minho. Warm lips on his forehead pulled Newt out of his thoughts again, and light brown eyes met gentle dark ones. Newt pressed himself into Minho’s embrace, feeling self-hatred bubble in his stomach.

He was supposed to be stronger than this.

* * *

On Clint’s orders, Newt spent another night in the Homestead. After helping him onto the cot, Minho sat on the ancient-looking stool in the corner, looking hesitant. Newt, tired enough to pass out again, had asked, “Well, are you gonna bloody sleep with me?”

Minho smirked teasingly, as if he hadn’t just spent an hour coaxing him to relax. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” When Newt pouted, Minho laughed. “I need to call a klunkin’ meeting with the Keepers. We need to figure out what to do about…everything.”

At that, Newt’s stomach twisted. “Right.”

“Don’t worry.” Minho frowned. As if reading Newt’s thoughts, he continued, “You realize you’re a hero, right? You killed a Griever single-handedly. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Go to your bloody meeting.” Newt grinned, suppressing doubt from his tone. Minho ruffled his hair and planted a kiss on Newt’s forehead.

“I’ll be back!” Minho called over his shoulder as he left the room.

He curled towards the wall and fell quickly into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

To Newt’s disappointment, Minho wasn’t there when he woke up, though there was a reassuring dip in the blanket that evidenced his presence. Newt had barely sat up before Clint walked in carrying a pitcher of water.  The boy looked surprised that Newt was awake. Newt answered a few questions about his leg before Clint offered to get him food.

“I want to see Alby.” Newt demanded instead. Clint looked ready to argue, but the desperation in Newt’s expression changed his mind.

“I’ll help you walk.” Clint answered, offering his shoulder.

Alby was kept in one of the deeper rooms in the Homestead, the one reserved for boys going through the Changing.

It was worse than Newt expected. Alby’s eyes were closed, but he was tense enough to be obviously awake. Dark blue and green veins formed a poisonous web across Alby’s chest, neck, arms, and face, and if he wasn’t so securely bound, Newt was sure his friend would be writhing, struggling to tear his own skin off.

“Alby!” Newt rushed to the bed, putting his hand on Alby’s creased forehead. The flesh was hot and sweaty.

“Newt?” Alby groaned, opening puffy, bloodshot eyes. “Is that you?”

“I’m here.” Newt said, touching Alby’s hands where they were bound at his sides. “Stop talking if it hurts,” he begged.

“I want—” Alby sucked in a deep breath, “I want to talk to the Greenie. Thomas.”

“Do you need anything?” Newt asked desperately, dismayed by the little sense the request made. “I can get—”

“I want Thomas.” Alby interrupted, his voice cracking. “Newt, please.”

“Okay, okay.” Newt looked at Clint, who was leaning against the doorframe, having not entered the room completely.

“He’s been asking for him since he got well enough to speak,” Clint replied. With a pang of sympathy, Newt noticed how strained the Medjack looked. His eye bags and slightly slouched figure made it believable that Clint had been the one who spent a terrified, sleepless night in the Maze. Before Newt could demand more details about what was wrong with Alby, the boy in question let out a horrible shriek of pain.

Newt flinched, but Clint pushed off from the door calmly and plucked one of the syringes from the collection on the large bedside table the Medjacks used as a medicine cabinet.

Newt watched in quiet panic as Clint injected Alby with something that had an almost immediate calming effect on his struggling limbs.

“It’s Thomas…” Alby muttered, voice hoarse. “I know who he is.”

“What?” Newt looked sharply into his reddened eyes, feeling a rush of vicarious pain at the tortured expression on Alby’s face. However, the tenseness was melting off rapidly, Alby’s eyelids drooping.

“I’m sorry…Newt…” Alby’s words trailed off with his consciousness. Newt felt the sickly drip of suspicion at Thomas. The boy clearly wasn’t just a plain old Greenie. He was curious and fearless. He seemed to belong in the Maze, the opposite of Newt. And then there was that girl…

“Uh, Newt,” Clint sounded hesitant to interrupt the second-in-comand, who continued to stare intensely at Alby. “They’re holding a Gathering for you today.” Clint glanced out the window, judging the position of the sun. “Minho should be here any minute. We should head back to the room.”

Newt suppressed a groan of dread and nodded. With Clint following him closely, he limped his way back to the room he woke up in.

When they got there, the Keeper of the Runners was already sitting casually on the cot.

“You ready?” Minho asked, pushing off the cot with an easy ripple of muscle that made Newt jealous. His mind never failed to remind him that he would never again be as physically fit, as graceful, as Minho. As Newt used to be.

When Newt nodded, Minho approached him. The Runner’s stance was casual and businesslike, but Newt detected caution in the tenseness of Minho’s shoulders. It was also hard to ignore the dark circles under Minho’s eyes.

Newt allowed Minho to slip behind him and gather his wrists together at the small of his back. It was standard for rule-breakers in custody to be transported like that, though somewhat unnecessary.  Even if a boy got free, where would he run? No matter how Newt looked at it, they were all already imprisoned.

“C’mon.” Minho dug a knuckle gently into Newt’s back, encouraging him to move. His grip was loose to the point it didn’t feel like Newt was being restrained.

It was a short walk to the room where all the other Keepers were waiting.

Minho’s hand didn’t disappear from his until Newt was seated in the center chair, surrounded by the semicircle of Keepers. Newt found that he missed Minho’s touch, which always managed to reassure him without trying.

The Gathering always took place in that room, the largest in the Homestead. Newt watched Minho walk casually to where Alby usually sat, in the middle chair of the semicircle.

As the highest ranking Glader not incapacitated or on trial for breaking the Number One Rule, the Keeper of the Runners was the de facto Leader. The two chairs on either side of Minho were conspicuously empty. To the right was Newt’s usual seat and to the left was Minho’s.

“Alright, shanks, settle down.” Minho called out sarcastically into silent room. The words, usually Alby’s, normally had to be repeated several times at the start of Gatherings before the boys stopped talking long enough to hold any sort of civilized meeting. 

Newt was thankful when all eyes turned from him to Minho. The Keeper of the Runners opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Gally.

“Let it be known,” the Keeper of the Builders addressed the assembly, “Minho’s biased. Whatever he says will be soft on Newt.”

Minho raised a dark, imperious eyebrow. “Gally,” he replied, voice filled with blatant anger, “do we need another shucking Gathering to figure how soft on _you_ the Grievers will be?”

Newt winced inwardly. This was the opposite of the cool-headedness that the Gathering needed. Not that Newt could have done better in Minho’s position.

Gally looked on the verge of violence. “Was that a threat?”

With a glare, Minho turned his head deliberately away from Gally. Minho cleared his throat, and Newt was surprised at sudden change in Minho’s composure. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the anger melted into a cool, composed control. Minho leaned back in his chair.

“In place of our leader, sick in bed, and our second-in-command, on trial, I declare this Gathering begun.” Minho announced, his eyes on Newt. “You all know what we’re here for, so I’m not wastin’ breath explaining.”

He paused as if waiting for someone to disagree with him. No challenge came, even from Gally.

“Right.” Minho continued curtly. “Zart, you’re first.”

“Well, um, I—” Zart hesitated, looking back and forth between Newt and Minho, clearly uncomfortable being the center of attention. Newt found himself filled with sympathy. The boy, most comfortable unobtrusively tending the Gardens, didn’t deserve this pressure. “He broke the same rule as Thomas, right? Give him the same punishment as Thomas. A night in the Slammer.”

Gally scoffed. “You’re joking, right? Newt’s second-in-freakin’-command. He knows the rules way better than that shucking Greenie. It’s his _job_ to not break the rules.”

Newt winced at the truth of the words and followed everyone’s gaze to Minho.

“Did I say it was your turn, slinthead?” Minho arched an eyebrow at Gally before addressing Zart. “Got it. Next?” The Keeper of the Runners then nodded at Frypan, face unreadable. It was nothing like the thoughtful, open expression Alby usually maintained, but it worked to keep order nonetheless.

Newt sat numbly as the rest of the Council voiced their recommendations, mostly variations on time in the Slammer and days with only bread and water. Though he hadn’t dared to form expectations of what the other Keepers would think, Newt decided that they were being lenient. The biggest debate was over whether Newt should resign from second-in-command, and to Newt’s surprise, only a minority wanted him ousted.

Though his fate sat on the chopping board, Newt couldn’t help being enraptured by the frank level-headedness with which Minho presided over the Gathering. Though Newt had witnessed Minho give uniquely eloquent pep talks to the Runners and work each trainee he took on to his fullest potential, Minho’s endless reservoir of leadership skills would never cease to surprise.

The chair Minho sat on creaked quietly as the powerful body in it shifted, turning subtly to face each speaker. He was forward without being confrontational, listening without being passive. Of course, Minho did this all while slipping in the occasional sarcastic remark or eye roll. Newt wondered how Minho, without an iota of self-deprecation, managed to seem disdainful of authority while being the authority.

Then, it was Gally’s turn.

The way the other Keepers watched the boy warily made Newt suspect something unpredictable happened during Thomas’s sentencing.

“Go on, Gally.” Minho said tersely, quirking a corner of his mouth up. It reminded Newt of a wolf licking its chops.

“I think,” Gally’s eyes made a meaningful sweep across the semicircle of Keepers, “we can't trust Newt any more than we can trust Thomas. It doesn’t matter what heroic klunk he did in the Maze. We can’t let a rule breaker be a leader, especially not someone too weak to follow his own rules.”

Though he hadn’t expected anything different from Gally, Newt flinched. The words felt like a physical blow to an old wound that never healed. Minho spared Newt a concerned glance before flicking his gaze contemptuously back at Gally.

“If you have a point, you’d better make it soon, slinthead.”

“What I’m saying is,” Gally glared at Minho, “if we want to survive this, we can’t be led by someone who doesn’t care if _he_ survives.”

Minho went rigid at the same time Newt turned pale. The words diffused into the air like poison into blood.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?” The de facto leader growled dangerously, his suddenly murderous tone barely concealed. Beneath that, there was a tenor of pain in Minho’s voice that shredded Newt’s heart.

“You know already.” Gally replied coldly. “This isn’t the first time Newt’s gone and tried to—”

The Keeper of the Builders didn’t get to finish his sentence because Minho, whose expression had transformed from icy to enraged almost instantly, abruptly surged up from his seat. His chair hit the ground with a clang. The muscles and veins on Minho’s forearm shifted and bulged as he clenched his long fingers into a tight fist.

Feeling a swell of panic, Newt staggered up and forward. Ignoring the pain in his leg, he lunged for Minho, trying to grab onto his arm, trying to pull him back.

But Newt was too late.

A sharp crack sounded, and Gally was on the floor, spewing curses, blood running like a river out of his nose.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! Sorry for the wait. This is where the explicit rating (AKA smut) comes in. 
> 
> Enjoy, and as always let me know what you think!

“His nose is broken,” Clint reported, and the news surprised no one. A few Keepers winced in sympathy, but no one spoke.

Even if Newt wasn’t banned from speaking, he wouldn’t have been able to get a word out. His throat felt choked up, plugged by a swirl of guilt and self-loathing. Minho was still on his feet, and Newt could feel the other boy’s gaze on him but refused to meet it. Instead, he studied the creases in his hands.

“What now?” Winston asked.

Another beat of silence.

“I think I’m not alone on this, but Gally deserved that.” Frypan answered calmly. There were several noises of agreement.

“Doesn’t change the rules,” replied another Keeper. “‘Never hurt another Glader.’ Gally’ll give everyone a huge load of klunk if Minho gets away with this.”

“Like hell I’m saying sorry.” Minho, still standing from his outburst, sounded like he was barely reining his anger.

“Okay, well I recommend Minho gets twenty-four hours in the Slammer, effective immediately,” Frypan announced. “No reason not to treat this like any other fight.”

“Yeah, and we can decide Newt’s punishment when Minho gets out,” Zart added, obviously uncomfortable with the tension. The other Keepers all voiced their assent, and Newt sympathized with their eagerness to mend the harmony, to make the Glade whole again.  A cage was no place for conflict.

Newt felt like throwing up.

It must have shown in his expression, because he noticed that everyone in the room was looking at him like he was a powder keg.

“You okay, Newt?” Winston asked. Newt stood, ignoring the nausea rolling in his stomach.

“The Gathering’s bloody over, right? I…I’m gonna leave now.” He fled through the door like a startled deer, brushing past Clint.

He had nearly reached the door to the bedroom when he heard Minho call his name.

“We need to talk about this.” Minho caught the door Newt attempted to slam. They engaged in a brief tug of war with the door before Newt, sensing inevitable defeat, let go. He spun on his heel and headed towards the cot.

Minho stumbled backwards at the abrupt lack of resistance but righted himself with enviable agility.

“You’re not brushing this off, shank,” Minho said, voice tight with tension. The door clicked closed after the other boy stepped inside, giving them a fragile privacy.

“There’s nothin’ to brush off,” Newt insisted. He sat heavily on the cot and immediately regretted it when the springy mattress forced him into an embarrassing bounce, jolting his leg.

“Seriously expect me to believe that?” The medical cot was elevated enough so that Minho standing was only a little higher than eye-level with Newt.

“Leave me alone.” Newt braced his hands on the firm flesh of Minho’s shoulders.

Light brown eyes met dark ones, and Minho didn’t move away. He didn’t move any closer, either, and the familiarity of Minho’s caution made Newt’s chest go cold. He was tired of being coddled by Minho, by Alby, by Clint, by the entire Glade. Except for Gally… _Gally_ wasn’t afraid of the truth.

“Why did you follow Thomas into the Maze?”

It seemed that Minho was finally getting tired of Newt’s bullshit.

“You jealous?” Newt wanted to make Minho angry. He wanted Minho to fight back against him instead of absorbing his blows. Instead of rising to the jab, Minho watched Newt curiously.

“Should I be worried about him?” The corner of Minho’s mouth twitched up, but the seriousness in his eyes made it clear the question wasn’t just about whether the Greenie was romantic competition.

“Tommy’s innocent as the rest of us,” Newt responded hotly, but Alby’s voice echoed in his mind.  _It’s Thomas…I know who he is._  “He doesn’t remember anything.”

“If you trust him, shank, I do too.” Minho replied matter-of-factly. The real meaning of the words was clear on Minho's face: I don’t want to argue with you.

The reversal of roles, of Minho being the placating one instead of Newt, did nothing to mitigate the feeling in his head that the world was tilting.

“Gally doesn’t think so,” Newt argued, trying to kindle the spark of disagreement.

“That's Gally’s problem.” Minho’s expression tightened at the mention of the boy’s name. Then, he raised an eyebrow, and Newt was unexpectedly comforted by the familiar snarkiness that colored his tone. “You’re awfully desperate to make this about that Greenie.”

“You're awfully certain that this isn't about him,” Newt retorted.

“It isn't. At least not entirely.”

“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” Newt's hands tightened on Minho’s shoulders, blunt nails digging like chisels into the blue cloth of his shirt.

“Thomas’s no messiah.” Minho replied, stepping forward. The words hung in the air.

Newt’s grip slackened in surprised confusion. “What?”

Minho took the opportunity to pry Newt’s hands away from his shoulders and gently hold them in his own. “You’ve been waiting for him since you climbed out of the goddamned Box,” he explained, and Newt's lungs tightened. “Someone to change everything. You want a klunk-for-brains hero to blaze through the Maze and lead us all to freedom.”

Denial clogged Newt’s throat but couldn’t make its way out. It was hilariously unfair how easily the words pierced deep. Then again, Minho always knew Newt best.

“When’d you die and reincarnate into a buggin’ shrink?” Out of the tumultuous jumble swirling in Newt’s mind, that was the sentence that made it out.

Minho barked out a laugh. The harshness of the sound belied the gentleness with which his hands moved to stroke across Newt’s jawline. Minho leaned forward to press a kiss to Newt’s forehead. He trailed to the side until his lips were at Newt’s temple.

The comforting touch didn’t contain a hint of intent. Nonetheless, Newt felt a tingle of skittishness run through his nerves.

“Thomas’s not special.” Minho continued, and the words came out muffled against Newt's skin. When Newt opened his mouth to point out that Thomas was the reason they were both alive, Minho brushed the calloused pad of his long finger against Newt's lips. “Even if he is, that doesn’t mean _you’re_ expendable. It’s not about just one person…”

Newt felt like he was standing helplessly at shore and watching a war boat approach from the horizon, intent on tearing him apart. He had never thought about it that way, Minho’s words managed to hit cords of truth that he didn’t know existed.

“You can’t give up, Newt.”

A swell of panic flooded his throat. He needed to get Minho off course.

“For my sake, _please_. Tell me what’s wrong…”

So Newt parted his lips and sucked Minho’s finger into his mouth before the other boy could pull away. Simultaneously, he returned his hands to Minho’s shoulders and hauled him forward.

Minho yelped and toppled towards Newt, who parted his knees to accommodate the new closeness. Their chests crashed together before Minho instinctively braced a long arm against the mattress and caught himself. His face was inches away. Newt hooked his ankles around the backs of Minho’s legs to prevent him backing up.

“Newt,” Minho sighed, his voice amused yet wary. Newt didn’t miss the new husky note of lust. “Not a good time.”

“It’s been a while,” Newt said around the finger in his mouth, his tongue moving against the prominent knuckles. Newt swallowed the feeling of foolishness down and ground his body forward, relishing in Minho’s groan.

“Considering,  _ah_ , we spent most of the past forty-eight hours either runnin’ for our lives or sleeping our brains out, I wouldn’t call this urgent.”

Newt sacrificed Minho’s finger to tug back his collar and press an open-mouthed kiss to his neck.

“Okay, stop, slinthead,” Minho pushed Newt back and gripped his chin, forcing eye contact. The haze of lust barely diminished the sharpness of Minho’s gaze. “Don’t make me drag it out of you, please? For my sake, talk to me, and then we’ll have that overdue, mind-blowing sex.”

“I don’t want to bloody kill myself anymore, if that’s what you want me to say.” Newt spat, the beginnings of arousal rapidly replaced by anger. Minho didn’t flinch, didn’t back down.

“Then, what are you trying to prove? Everyone trusts you as a leader, but you’re determined to let them down.”

Newt’s expression twisted in pain. “I’m not—” he felt the promise of tears prickle at the backs of his eyes. “Why can’t you believe I just didn’t want to lose you?”

“I believe that,” Minho replied, his dark eyes burning with hurt. “But the fact that I wasn’t enough to make you stay with me, to stop you the first time, gives me the feelin’ this isn’t just about me.”

“Damn it, Minho,” Newt felt something pulled taut snap inside him, and the dam of his composure vaporized. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt hot tears spill across his cheeks like blood from an open wound. Guilt, old and unburied, seared through his throat.

“Shh, Newt,” Minho pulled Newt against his chest, and Newt was enveloped in his warm, earthy scent. His thumb caught the salty liquid. Lips touched Newt’s temple and then his cheek softly. “It’s okay. I don’t care if it’s not all about me. I just need to know what it is, so I can make sure it never shucking bothers you again.”

Newt pressed his face into the juncture of Minho’s neck and shoulder and didn’t answer for a long moment.

Minho’s hands began massaging circles into his back again.

“I’m weak,” Newt finally muttered into the crease of where fabric ended and skin began. “They look up to me, but they don’t  _see_  me.”

“Ever heard of speaking in tongues?” Minho arched an eyebrow when Newt didn’t continue. “Tell me what they don’t see, shank.”

“That I’m _weak,_ ” Newt repeated. “They expect me to step up and become Leader if anything happens to Alby.”

“I’m failin’ to understand how the  _possibility_  of screwing up at leadership is worse than _definitely_ getting eaten by Grievers.” Minho replied drily.

“That’s why I’m weak.” Newt leaned back to look into Minho’s eyes. “And you’re strong. We’re shuckin’ different.”

Newt watched as something shifted in the other boy’s eyes. It was as quick as a light switch but infinitely more subtle. An understanding. Then, a change in strategy.

“Newt,” Minho growled, grabbing Newt’s shoulders tightly. He gave him a shake, and Newt clutched Minho’s elbows as he crashed forward. “You’re not weak.” The rough movement brought their groins together and elicited a half-groan, half-whimper from Newt. “You’re god-damn blind.” Minho brought his mouth to where part of Newt’s chest was bared by his sienna colored tank top and sucked, his mouth wicked and unrelenting.

“Hell,” Newt gasped at the sudden aggression. Minho’s hands wandered down, ghosting over his ribs and settling on his hips.

“I don’t understand why you have klunk for self-esteem, but I won’t let you insult my taste. There’s a  _reason_  everyone likes you, and it’s not just ’cause you’re pretty.”

“Wait, Minho,” Newt groaned, glancing at the door warily. “The Keepers—”

“They gave me ’til dinner to deal with you, shank.”

Minho abruptly hooked his hands under Newt’s thighs and lifted him from the cot. The world tilted, and Newt felt the sheet-covered mattress behind him as he was laid on his back. Minho climbed forward like a leopard and settled between Newt’s legs.

Newt grabbed Minho’s collar and pulled him into a searing kiss. When the lips above his parted, Newt licked into his mouth, relishing in the taste and slickness of their tongues together. It was uniquely Minho and nothing else.  _Too little else_ , Newt noticed. He pulled back.

“Have you eaten today?”

“I swear to God, Newt,” Minho groaned, grinding his hips forward in retaliation. “You have worse timing than Thomas, and that shank can’t tell a punchline for his life.”

“Minho.” Newt leveled him with a stern look and propped himself on his elbows to prevent being pressed farther into the bed. Minho just dipped his head down and kissed Newt on the shoulder.

“Food might’ve slipped my mind,” Minho mumbled into his skin. Then, he sunk his teeth gently into the juncture of Newt’s shoulder before replacing the bite with a lick. “I’d rather have you.”

Newt’s hands flew to grasp the back of Minho’s neck.

“Hell…”

Minho undid a button and a zipper before giving his Newt’s hipbone a few impatient taps with his thumb. Newt lifted his hips so his pants could be tugged off and tossed to the side. His shirt followed suit quickly.

Minho caught Newt’s hands into his and placed them at his collar. Newt obeyed the wordless command and began to unbutton the other boy’s shirt, pressing his fingers into Minho’s bare chest as they traveled down. The warm, taut chest shivered under his fingers.

“Hurry up, shank…” In an elegant movement, Minho shrugged off his shirt and tugged Newt’s hand to the crotch of his pants.

Powerful abdominal muscles rippled as he helped Minho strip. Newt felt mesmerized, like a mouse caught in the glare of a snake.

His focus was promptly vaporized as Minho’s hand wandered between his legs.

Long, calloused fingers, slicked with something wet and slippery, wrapped around his cock. Newt tilted his head back against the barrage of pleasure that flooded up his spine.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Minho informed him before meticulously sucking and kissing the line of Newt’s throat.

“Wha…”

“Like the sun,” Minho added. With the hand not preoccupied with Newt’s cock, he stroked his fingers through golden hair. “Everyone looks up to you because they can’t shucking live without you.”

“That’s…poetic,” Newt answered disbelievingly.

Minho snorted and swiped the calloused pad of his thumb over the head of the hardened flesh. Pleasure wiped through Newt’s mind.

“Yes, Minho, please…” The other boy’s hand skated down the sensitive pillar of flesh, past his balls and behind—

“You better fucking remember, Newt,” Minho thrust a long finger inside his hole without warning. “You’re my sun, and wherever you go, I will follow.”

“Minho—” Newt whimpered when the finger curled and hit the right place effortlessly. His thighs trembled, and he felt a slight burn as he automatically clenched down.

Newt moved his hips, wordlessly encouraging Minho to hurry up and  _move._  The motion caused their bodies to ripple together, and the boy above him gasped.

Minho twisted another finger into him, and pleasure and pain spread like fire from the base of his spine.

“More…lube…”                                     

The Runner’s brows scrunched up in concern, and Newt groaned at the sudden disappearance of the fingers. Minho fumbled behind him for the tube of lotion. He brushed his finger gently across Newt’s entrance. “Jeez, you’re all pink and swollen down there…”

“Shut your hole.”

“Open yours.” Minho smirked and skillfully dodged the hand that came up to smack him. “It really has been a while, huh?”

This time, he entered Newt with more care. Newt tried to relax around the soreness. “Not since a week after Chuck got outta the box.”

With a groan, Minho dropped his head, pressing his face indiscriminately against Newt’s neck. “Ugh, speaking of mood-killers, don’t mention a Greenie’s name ever again while I’m fingering you.”

Newt let out a raspy laugh, feeling the inexplicable tenseness in his body go away. All pain gave way to soft warmth.

“That’s it, shank…” Minho eased a third digit in and hummed in approval.

“Okay,” Newt gasped after a few moments of writhing in pleasure. “I’m ready.”

“Right…” Minho pulled out his fingers, slicked himself, and braced his hands on Newt’s hips. He pressed a line of distracting kisses along Newt’s cheek and down to his neck.

Newt felt a blunt pressure at his entrance, thicker than the fingers gripping him. A moan escaped when Minho pushed inside.

It was in moments like this that even Newt was surprised by how tender and patient Minho could be. The boy above him feathered kisses along his arched neck as he pressed in slowly. Newt tensed around the intrusion, but the pain was tolerable.

Soreness soon melted away into pleasure, hot and blissful.

As the thrusts sped up, Newt clung to Minho like the boy above him was a piece of driftwood and he was stuck in a stormy sea.

Newt’s body jerked as he was fucked into the bed. His mind felt jumbled, torn between the hot, pleasurable sensation of Minho’s mouth on his neck, his sun-kissed, muscled stomach against his, and the hard, pulsing flesh plunging deep inside him.

When Newt climaxed, his vision whited out briefly. Liquid heat filled him and spread until it reached the tips of his fingers and toes.

Minho continued to piston his hips forward into Newt for a few moments before he let out a groan of pleasure that made Newt whimper. A final, rough thrust, and he was coming inside him

When Minho pulled out, there was an uncomfortable slickness between his thighs, but he felt too drowsy to care.

“I love you,” Minho hummed into Newt’s hair, pulling him against his warm, solid chest.

“I love you too…”

He fell into a soft, dreamless sleep.

* * *

“You two really like each other, don’t you?” Thomas asked, taking a seat next to Newt on the dirt floor. They both leaned against the wall of the Slammer as they watched Minho do his morning stretches and pull on his Runner harness. Well, Newt was looking at Minho. Thomas watched Newt.

Minho paused after he finished buckling up his harness to glance in their direction, his hands coming to a rest tugging the straps against his chest.

“Yeah,” Newt said, smiling when Minho gave them a wave.

“It must be nice.” Thomas replied, sounding wistful. Newt frowned. His usual policy was to stay out of other boys’ business unless there was some kind of emergency, but the unreadable expression Thomas wore drew the next words out of his mouth:

“What’s bitin’ ya, Tommy?”

“They’ve got all the power.” Thomas replied, and Newt’s eyes widened in surprise at the confusing statement.

“Who?”

“The Creators.” Thomas gestured vaguely around, and Newt swept his gaze across the unassailable walls surrounding them, blocking out the horizon.

“Bloody unfortunate for us,” Newt replied carefully, feeling the old, bitter demon of hopelessness clawing at the back of his mind.

“But they’re not as strong as us.” Thomas declared with confidence.

“How’s that, shank?”

“They’re just a bunch of employees. We’re…us. The way you and Minho look at each other…the way everyone here works together and understands each other. There’s nothing that can stop us if we stick together.”

There was a moment of silence between them during which Newt struggled desperately to dislodge the clot of emotion that suddenly appeared in his throat.

“Remind me to let you do the motivational speaking instead of Minho,” Newt finally replied, though he felt and intoned no sarcasm.

Somehow Newt believed him. Against all odds, they’d killed a Griever. They would escape from the Maze and its Creators, and Minho would finally find the peace and happiness he deserved.

All the boys in the Glade could get the life Newt had always been too weak to find for them.

As long as they followed each other.


End file.
